


Call Me by Your Flower Name

by stage5allnightr



Category: Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019), Harley Quinn (Comics), Poison Ivy (Comics)
Genre: Coming of Age, F/F, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, POV Alternating, Summer Love, anyway, i know but it cracks me up all the same, italicizing thoughts is an intuitive process, lastly the title, like i made it into a femslash, with dc villainesses... god what am i doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26695639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stage5allnightr/pseuds/stage5allnightr
Summary: Fuckin’ blazing sun, a stupidly stark sky blinding her eyes, and when she managed to sneak a peek, silly blades of grass were just waving to her sarcastically in the summer breeze, those fuckers. This might be the fullest of awful, godforsaken place of all time, phantom zone could never, a total shit ho-“HARLEEN FRANCES QUINZEL, quit sulkin’ around an’ help yer aunty set up these sticks.” A dangly looking frame under, well, some kind of tree, who fucking cares about types of green, bravely tried to adhere to the principles of simple statica. “Put this cloth on 'em.” The poor sticks seemed to buckle by the prospect of added weight. “And Jesus on a bicycle watch ya language young lady!” her aunt added, for ya know, good measure.“I wasn’t even sayin’ nuttin’!”“Ya were thinkin’ it, ain’t ya!”Or: One Harleen Frances Quinzel, who’s toeing the edge of seventeen, and her irritatingly psychic aunt are in Northern Italy of all places and much to the former’s dismay. But hey, a place is as good as the people you know in it, right? When she meets a certain smarty-pants called Pamela, Harley's certain, Lombardia's the worst place on the planet, especially during the summer of 1983.
Relationships: Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. Thorned Soles/Souls and Sweat/Sweet Palms

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, this is the Call Me by Your Name-AU nobody asked for except the author herself and her craving for gay bicycle trips and summer romances color graded in soft and warm tones of yellow and blue with a mix of vibrant red and green, and of course against the backdrop of some rad 80s disco bops and broody contemporary tunes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Backdrop track no. 1]
> 
> Ivy – Frank Ocean
> 
> For translations you’ll have to scroll down all the way (sorry)

A tiny Hellenistic statue was perched atop a stack of music sheets, frozen in his eternal picking at the small agony of a stuck thorn in the sole of his bronze foot. Suddenly, the boy’s hunched back was hit by a puff of wind. Two or three opportunistic sheets immediately swept past the open windows. “Merde.” And thus, on a summer’s day in 1983, a hushed curse in French joined the early chirping of birds.

Obviously, the cursing did not originate from some inanimate object but from the person to whom the little souvenir once was gifted, as an afterthought really, by her father during one of his exhaustingly many excursions. While Pamela was frantically hammering the button to lower the rotation speed of the table fan, she swallowed at the last second what would have been another display of French swearing. As it turned out, the papers’ escape was short-lived, as they had been captured by the _Lathyrus Latifolius_ , or in layman’s terms ‘the sweet pea vine’, that was wrapped around the rusty poles of her bedroom balcony. _Merci beaucoup, p’tit pea_ _._ After gathering all the notes of what seemed to be the music score of Ponchielli’s _La Gioconda,_ Pamela resumed her position on the window seat and picked up where she left off:

_Perhaps the text that best represents the more purely poetic influence of Sappho is number 31,  
_ _which catalogues the physical symptoms of love longing in the writer as she watches her beloved chatting with a man. […]_

“Ivre de jalousie, that’s more like it,” the girl mused as she skipped a few pages to catch the acclaimed number 31.

_He seems like the gods’ equal, that man, who  
ever he is, who takes his seat so close  
across from you, and listens raptly to  
_ _your lilting voice_

Sure enough, some distant voices from outside reached Pamela’s room.

_and lovely laughter, which, as it wafts by,  
_ _sets the heart in my ribcage fluttering;_

If she listened carefully, already dividing her attention between the letters on the page and the voices outside, she discerned not so much sounds of laughter but ones of childish stubbornness and barely concealed adult exasperation, _oh,_ and then her father’s reserved laughter.

_as soon as I glance at you a moment, I  
can’t say a thing,_

She stood up so she could peek over the balcony, and as Pamela had already anticipated, there they were, the other guests, who had just stepped out a, _well,_ some American car, _who in their right mind really cares about car models_.

“As ya can see Professor Isley, I’m even bigga than my cute picture.” The greeting in front of the mansion ended in a, _mother would surely use the adjective ‘unladylike’,_ snort. Still, the sender of said greeting looked _très féminine._ A maxi wrap dress in gold hugged every bold curve of the rather tall woman. What struck Pamela the most, however, was the obnoxiously wide brimmed straw hat that adorned the woman’s head. She went in for a hug, while Pamela could see her father reaching out for a courteous handshake. Any awkwardness was simply smothered when Professor Isley eventually found his face firmly squeezed against his colleague’s ample bosom. _What in the actual name of Sappho… ?_

Pamela’s curiosity got the better of her and she even went as far as to crane her neck, to then only catch a glimpse of a pair of blonde, almost white pigtails. The owner, however, of the jaunty pigtails was entirely shielded by the open trunk. Just when the lid had been shut with a rather sharp blow, Pamela’s surveillance activities were interrupted by her mother’s airy French.

“Chérie! Accompagne-moi, les gens de Brooklyn sont arrivées! Et s’il te plaît, sois polie, hein.” The utterance was followed by the clicking of heels, which created a dramatic echo in the main hall. _Évidement_ _, Mrs Isley wanted to come at eye level with the American woman, how predict…_ “Et enfin, Pamela, tout de suite! Il y a quand même une autre fille qui est plus jeune que toi,” her mother again barged in on Pamela’s inner thoughts. “Donc, sois un exemple, ma chérie.”

_and my tongue stiffens into silence, thin  
_ _flames underneath my skin prickle and spark,  
a rush of blood booms in my ears, and then  
my eyes go dark,_

_and sweat pours coldly over me, and all_

With the fan’s soft, barely there blows, a few drops of sweat had already made their way to her collar bone. _Ugh._ Pamela couldn’t stand sweating, its sticky feeling and its status as cultural signifier for being flustered or even worse, for being covered in fresh post-workout filth. Besides, even though she could roll her eyes at her mother’s old-fashioned view on peer dynamics, she definitely wanted to appear self-collected in front of, _if the pigtails were any signifier,_ this statement fashionista from the States or, and it is also an as valid possibility, a teen toddler.

After discarding her long, light woolen sweater – contrary to the hot days the nights were fortunately a tad chillier –, Pamela quickly went through her wardrobe, cautious not to ruffle the specific arrangements, and decided on a striped tank top in red and white and some high-waisted denim shorts. Her bookmark, a dried feverfew flower, was left at the poem’s final lines – which wouldn’t be read for the remainder of that day, or for that matter, the summer.

_my body shakes, suddenly sallower_   
_than summer grass, and death, I fear and feel,_   
_is very near._

During their first summer spend in the seventeenth-century villa, twelve-year-old Pamela always descended the staircase with a certain awe as the majestic main hall gradually came into view by each step. Admittedly, ‘majestic main hall’ might be a plain alliteration but really there wasn’t a more suitable adjective to describe the luxurious yet deceivingly cozy open space. Now, nineteen years old and probably more tired than enthralled by her surroundings and the world in general, she only fleetingly glanced at the hall paintings of several flower arrangements. When she reached the terrazzo floor, a superficial titter, _her mother’s,_ erupted from one of the adjacent rooms. A last time she swept with her fingers around her neck to check if she was good, cool to go, and then Pamela entered her father’s sunlit study room.

“Sherry, mais quel nom magnifique! Alors, comme le vin d’Andalousie! Oh, le vin, mon poison préféré.” Her mother’s wandering hand landed on the other woman’s, _Sherry’s_ shoulder. _Enough already with the alliterations._

It was the American woman who first noticed the new presence, a warm smile broke across her face, and crow feet appeared around her dark eyes. However, it was her mother’s steely grey eyes that demanded the attention of Pamela’s green ones.

“Chérie. Voici, Sherry or Dr. Quinzel.”

“What a lovely alliteration, don’t ya think? Enchantée.”

Pamela, who found herself oddly charmed by the Brooklyn twang, had prepared herself, with a healthy dose of resignation, for the same bear hug the tall woman had given her father but instead she was presented an extravagantly manicured hand.

“Nice to meet you as well.”

Then it hit Pamela. The colossal hat was gone, no, it had taken residence on Professor Isley’s chesterfield. Their handshake came to a sudden halt, when again someone entered the room with hardly subdued grunts and puffs.

“Harley!” The woman let go of Pamela’s hand. “Jesus, please be careful with that suitcase. There’s a lotta precious things in there.” As she turned around, Pamela, _finally,_ could see the youngest of the guests, and, _merde_ _,_ Harley¸ _quel nom_ _particulier_ _,_ certainly was not a toddler. She hated to let looks dominate first impressions, and she hated how she couldn’t tear her eyes away as quickly as she wanted. _And oh no, she still stood there with her hand in the air like a fool._

“Is that yer way of saying you wanna carry yer baggage all by yerself? In that case, no pun intended, be my guest, aunty.”

It might be the first time Pamela heard a voice being this combination of swirly, high-pitched and slightly out of breath. It did weird things to her ears, and even more unsettling things to her stomach. Sherry’s niece, because that’s what the girl apparently was, had unlike her aunt favored a more laid-back, _more revealing too,_ look. A pink and blue Oxford shirt, clearly unbuttoned to show off a plunging neckline and tied at the front _,_ teasing some lower belly display, was set off by a pair of shorts which fell short by about one inch to be considered decent.

The case landed on the thick carpet with a thump.

Sensing the shift in atmosphere her mother chimed in. “Oh Harley, benvenuta! And surely you both are our guests.” Her mother shot a quick glance to her daughter. _Is this Mrs Isley’s cue to enable exemplary conduct?_

Taking a step closer to the girl, on who she clearly had a few inches, Pamela tried for a second, and hopefully the last, handshake of that day. It might have been her imagination, but the blonde seemed to frown before accepting Pamela’s hand and, _oh mon dieu,_ Harley’s hand trapped hers in a firm and clammy grip.

For the duration of two whole seconds, thousands of micro drops of sweat must have been transported from one skin surface to another, yet Pamela just had to politely smile during this exchange of bodily fluids, she even managed to formulate a greeting.

“Hi… Harley.” _Not the most eloquent greeting though._

“Now that has some nice ring ta it.”

Unlike her aunt’s smile, the younger girl’s smile was not warm or even amicable, rather playful or even daring. A grin really. Perhaps Harley did remind her somewhat of a sly _enfant terrible._ And it really was a poor knee jerk reaction, but the superfluous response escaped Pamela’s mouth anyway.

“It’s called an alliteration.” Now she definitely saw the other girl frowning until one eyebrow was raised in a mischievous quirk.

“Well, Pam-a-lamb, nice ta meet ya. Hope ya liked that ass-”, a bone dry blink, “-onance.”

Then with a twirl the Brooklyn girl headed out to retrieve her own bags, subtly _or seemingly_ swaying her ass, _merde,_ hips, _she meant hips._

“Oh, hiya, Professor Isley!”

And just like that, her father stood in front of Pamela. “Pam, could you please excuse us. Maybe look for some light refreshments.” She could sigh, that’s for sure, but she didn’t, not in plain sight of her father. Pamela nodded and left them to their grown-up affairs. Once arrived at a safe distance from the study room and with no trace of her so-called peer either, she let air escape her body in the most exasperated way a majestic main hall is convenient for.

_Fuckin’ blazing sun, a stupidly stark sky blinding her eyes, and when she managed to sneak a peek, silly blades of grass were just waving to her sarcastically in the summer breeze, those fuckers. This might be the fullest of awful, godforsaken place of all time, phantom zone could never, a total shit ho-_

“HARLEEN FRANCES QUINZEL, quit sulkin’ around an’ help yer aunty set up these sticks.” A dangly looking frame under, _well_ , some kind of tree, _who fucking cares about types of green_ , bravely tried to adhere to the principles of simple statica. “Put this cloth on 'em.” The poor sticks seemed to buckle by the prospect of added weight. “And Jesus on a bicycle watch ya language young lady!” her aunt added, for _ya know_ , good measure.

“I wasn’t even sayin’ nuttin’!”

“Ya were thinkin’ it, ain’t ya!”

With all the effort she could muster, Harley withheld herself from parroting the words back. Instead, she decided to be collected, chill, as cool as a cucumber, whatever, and went digging in her backpack. She couldn’t properly set up a tent with that _STUPID_ sky being al bright and sunshine. _Where the fuck was her black wayfarer, unless Jay had lent, no, stolen it from her. Maybe for the best, it could cover that douche face of his. Welp,_ her candy red cap had to do the trick.

“Sooo aunty Sherry, which sticks do you need pulled out of yer a-”

“Don’t ya even dare finish that sentence, Harley.” Her aunt pointed to her with another stick. _Yikes, how many of these things are there._ “Look, this pedestrian undertaking is gettin’ extremely on my nerves an’ I still have ta sweet talk ol’ Professor Isley. Sooo,” Sherry mimicked Harley’s earlier tone – _seriously, who’s the parrot now_ – “I’ll look for that beautiful daughter of his and you young folks can figure this mess out, and oh, there she is. Pammy, dear!”

Harley whipped her head to see the indeed very pretty girl approaching… cautiously? The blonde squinted her eyes and, _oow,_ the very pretty girl was holding in one hand a wooden plate with glasses on it and a big jug of lemonade in the other. Harley hurried to avoid the inevitable.

Here’s the deal. Harley’s intentions were to avoid the inevitable, but how could she know the redhead had some crazy spiderman reflexes and somehow managed to still catch the falling jug while keeping the glasses on the plate? So, when Harley leapt towards the pretty girl and shot her hand out to also save the object from falling, she actually whacked the can out of Pamela’s hand, splashing the pretty girl with the jug’s content, while the thing itself squashed into pieces.

“Oh mon dieu!”

“Uhm it’s actually pronounced ‘Monday’, but oh my god, are you okay?”

“What are you talking about? And, non, ne me touche pas! Your hands are sweaty and I’m drenched in lemonade!” The older girl frantically tugged at her soaked top.

Even though she didn’t really get that second sentence, Harley hastily retreated her hands. “Well, I dunno, ya seemed to say Monday but at the end of the word you had some French thing going on?” As for her hands, they were indeed sweaty but it’s not like it’s a surprise in this stupidly hot weather, still, she self-consciously wiped them off on her shorts.

“Look, I’m sorry. I actually kinda tried to avoid a sticky situation like this, ya know.” She was met by a blank expression.

Then some curious thing happened. The older girl closed her eyes and when they opened again the irritation in them had vanished and now Harley looked at a masque of politeness so convincing, so devoid of genuineness.

“Just, don’t worry. I’ll just head back to my room and change. You just stay here. Just… Adieu, Harley.” Before she could answer to that jumbled sequence of ‘justs’ the older girl had already turned her back to her.

_Adieu, Harley._ Now that she at least understood.

During their first encounter her name had sounded cute and unsure when it rolled over the girl’s tongue, not that she said that out loud. _Has some nice ring ta it_ , that’s how she greeted the professor’s daughter. Of course, then their interaction in the study room took on a more challenging tone, she still wasn’t sure what exactly happened there. And yeah, it was perhaps more Harley’s own doing, but she couldn’t let that snobby remark fly by. Anyway, this time though, her name sounded like a tired sigh that left the redhead’s body. Harley scoffed. _Fine, she doesn’t like me._

“Real smooth, kid.” Harley briefly lost her balance, when her aunt patted, _attacked,_ her niece’s shoulder.

“Seems like you’re already making friends. Now, pop back to your own sticky situation.” Sherry pointed to that pathetic excuse for a tent. “Good luck and ciao!” And with those heartfelt words she left Harley too. _God, what a total shit ho-_

“Language, Harleen, language!”

During lunch – they were seated under the shadow of yet another tree – her aunt had some lame ass discussion with the professor about the origin of the word ‘peach’, like who fuckin’ cares. Harley herself munched her way through several toasts that were lavishly smeared with jam. She could feel Mrs. Isley’s gaze on her, but each time she dared to make eye contact the woman gave her a minute smile that quite frankly distressed her. Pamela’s seat was empty.

After lunch Harley wandered through the orchard, feeling slightly disoriented by all its colors and scents, and it was so different than Brooklyn that another mental rant about her surroundings just seemed futile. Soon anyway, exhaustion caught up with her and she promptly fell asleep on one of the recliners near the plunge pool.

For dinner Pamela was already seated next to her mother. Her chignon had been undone and strands of copper red hair were caught in the faint evening breeze. Harley also noticed how the red and white tank top had been replaced by a soft looking sweater. Again, some kind of distress threatened Harley’s appetite. As everyone seemed to ignore her though, Harley supposed she shouldn’t be so sensitive by everything and everyone. Pamela was the first to leave the table.

“Perhaps I am being too harsh.”

The boy still hunched over the thorn, which was still stuck in his sole, did not answer. Then again, Pamela wouldn’t waste her words to some inanimate object, and definitely not one gifted by her father.

Pamela was talking to her Lathyrus Latifolius, while watering the plant.

“Mother certainly didn’t spare me when she saw my stained shirt.” _And the tattooed ivy along her rib._ Shortly after the whole lemonade episode, Pamela had discarded her tank top, which she was holding under the tap when her mother strode into the kitchen. It’s not like her mother didn’t know it was there, but every time she caught sight of it, Pamela could hear the venomous words of reproach her mother never articulated, except for that one time.

For lunch she had decided to lay low and for dinner she just had to persevere. Still, she couldn’t help to steal a glance at the blonde, who seemed to make herself as small as possible.

After bidding her p’tit pea goodnight and closing her windows, she put on another sweater over her lighter one. And for reasons she didn’t want to explore, Pamela suddenly wondered how the laughter of the Brooklyn girl sounded.

For all her bullying, the poor thing, once it was properly set up, was actually quite successful in shutting out the wind and the world. Maybe she should consider herself lucky that Sherry pushed her to camp in the orchard. “The fresh air will do ya good Harley, a gratuitous detox treatment, clearing ya head from all that Brooklyn fog.” And after everything that happened, it seemed unlikely that she could share a room with Pamela, _Pam-a-lamb._ Thinking back to that puzzled look of hers put a slight quirk in Harley’s mouth, which immediately died down when memories of the girl’s frigid demeanor drowned out the previous image.

Alone in her tent, curled up at the edge of seventeen, Harley decided that if people like Jay and her parents could just leave her, she also just didn’t care about people, not about them and not about beautiful strangers. Same for the fact that she really didn’t know where or why her aunt had dragged her into her summer excursion to Europe. A fat tear slipped from her eye leaving a wet trail across her cheek and collar bone. But the sudden sound of breaking twigs instantly pulled her out her self-pity party.

_Fine, she’s gonna be axed in an Italian orchard, just fucking fantastic._

For a moment everything went back to silence, until the same sound returned but now almost next to her face.

And with the blazing sun finally pestering another part of the world, with the pitch black sky reflecting her own nocturnal blindness, Harley could hear over the frantic beating of her heart the whisper of her own name, in a tone that was both cute and unsure.

“Harley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Translations]
> 
> Merde. – Shit.
> 
> Merci beaucoup, p’tit pea. – Thank you very much, lil’ pea.
> 
> Ivre de jalousie – Being green with envy
> 
> très féminine – very feminine
> 
> “Chérie! Accompagne-moi, les gens de Brooklyn sont arrivées! Et s’il te plaît, sois polie, hein.” – “Honey! Accompany me, the people from Brooklyn have arrived ! And please, be polite, eh.”
> 
> Évidement – Of course
> 
> “Et enfin, Pamela, tout de suite! Il y a quand même une autre fille qui est plus jeune que toi,” – “And, Pamela, right now! There is a girl younger than you,”
> 
> “Donc, sois un exemple, ma chérie.” – “So, be an example, honey.”
> 
> “Sherry, mais quel nom magnifique! Alors, comme le vin d’Andalousie! Oh, le vin, mon poison préféré.” – “Sherry, but what a magnificent name! So, like the Andalusian wine! Oh, wine, my preferred poison.”
> 
> “Chérie. Voici, Sherry or Dr. Quinzel” – “Honey. Meet Sherry or Dr. Quinzel!”
> 
> Enchantée. – Nice to meet you.
> 
> quel nom particulier – what a distinct name
> 
> “Oh Harley, benvenuta!” – “Oh Harley, welcome!”
> 
> oh mon dieu – oh my god
> 
> And, non, ne me touche pas! – And, no, do not touch me!
> 
> Just… Adieu, Harley – Just… Later, Harley.
> 
> [Excerpt on Sappho]
> 
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sappho


	2. A Girl in Trouble (Is A Temporary Thing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Backdrop track no. 2]
> 
> A Girl in Trouble (Is a Temporary Thing) – Romeo Void

/ On the way to Lombardia /

Harley looked out of the car window but could only see Jay cradling a sturdy telephone to his pierced ear. Oh, how far from tenderly he would’ve talked on the phone. Like no way. Manic shouts and blarin’ farewells all the way, that’s her Jay alright.

– Gonna miss you like crazy! – Gonna count the days 'til you’ll be back in my arms! – Only sad smiles from now on! – Et glorious cetera.

That’s how their last phone call should’ve played out, all tragic teen drama, because the fated paramours would be separated for an entire summer. Yeah, how she could picture her glum bum, her melancholic clown prince. Harley expected promises of faithfulness and transcendent love that couldn’t and wouldn’t be torn by wonky, inconveniently warped space or time.

Instead, in this shitty reality she’s living, a flimsy polaroid of her boyfr-, ex, had been shoved into the Quinzels’ mailbox. On it a send-off in that typical jagged handwriting of his:

‘C U later, alligator :)’

_What the fuck is he smilin’ about._ To be fair, his grin was similar to that of the reptile. And… and she had kissed it many many many times. _Ugh, she could puke._ Anyway, that’s what Jay left her, his forever girl, a fuck you wrapped up in a smiley.

But like, it wasn’t her choice to cross the ocean. It was Sherry’s. Out of the Buffalo blue her auntie had snared Harley for a trip to Italy. _Let’s feed ya some scoop of real deal Italian gelato and some classical age homoeroticism on top._ Honestly, how that branch of the Quinzel family tree had snatched a triple doctorate’s degree, it remained one of life’s biggest mysteries.

But back to Jay, see, suddenly his pretentious ass had chosen to leave Brooklyn indefinitely, and _ya betta wait fer the punch of the joke,_ he wanted to leave his princess for a city called Gotham, some placed named after fuckin’ goats or somethin’! _She should ask Sherry about that. Still, ya ever saw a knight in shining armor gallop his white stallion to the land of goateed mammals instead of rescuing the fair damsel in distress?_ So yeah, all that bull– goatshit led to one crumpled photograph and a shredded heart and done.

Or, well, no, not really, not entirely.

In her disillusion, which perhaps was even worse than a shitty reality, Harley at first glance saw Jay’s message to ditch town as the final straw to run away from home. To elope with her darlin’ prince, oh her wildest dream had come true! Like that’s exactly what the photograph was, an invitation or even better, it was a genuine plea to flee into the sunset. Turned out the straw sucked goat toes, meaning exactly what she didn’t know and didn’t care, it just became a real suck fest.

When she arrived that same night at Jay’s, a packed sports bag slung over her shoulder, Harley was met by an open door to the dingy and to her surprise empty apartment. But no open arms. Her boyfr-, ex, was already gone.

Quickly the pit of anguish in her stomach exploded into a scream, which set off the zinging of locks. The door opposite Jay’s was slightly ajar and some cranky man’s voice smothered Harley’s wailing.

“Ya betta shut it girl! That petty piece of human already left, you betta be grateful! By god, that guy’s laugh, I can’t get it outta my head, even now!”

“But, sir, I’m his foreva girl, he told me that–, that–” Hareley barely couldn’t get the words out as sobs started to wreck her body.

The door was now entirely open, revealing the neighbor. It was a man in a wheelchair, sporting a sweaty smelling Hawaiian shirt.

“Christ, how old are ya even?” He sighed and stayed quiet for a bit, Harley’s sobs the only noise that filled the dimly lit corridor.

“Again, ya betta go home, girl. C’mon go on! Or do I have ta scare ya?”

Harley looked up. She wasn’t exactly scared, but the man’s gaze unsettled her.

“I tell ya, I’m not the finest piece of human, far from.” She wasn't entirely sure if it was unconsciously or not, but the man seemed to be poking at, _sufferin’_ _jesus, that looked like a scarred gunshot wound._

“And it takes trash to smell other trash,” he continued. “That boy, I tell ya, he smelled like the scorched insides of Satan himself. Now get out! Out!”

The man had succeeded, Harley was scared and again ran away, eventually back to her personal hell, back to her bedroom, where she muffled her cries for the rest of the night.

Well, maybe reality’s shitty, but perhaps Jay was just a very shitty guy too, and maybe she was a shitty person to not realize it sooner, maybe it was exhibit a, ‘a’ standing for how awfully dumb and silly Harleen Frances Quinzel was.

Another more satisfying vision of her ex. His crooked smile goes crack, his pale neck creck.

“Kid, –

His sweet skully thrown in a gully.

“hey, –

His corps the future fossil of a cockroach.

“hey Harley, –

She, _argh,_ she just could strangle Jay with a phone cord, sluggin’ slowly, so she could see his jugular vein well up 'til –

“Oh for the love of pickles and Jesus, HARLEEN FRANCES QUINZEL!”

As if the rowdy enunciation of her full name wasn’t interfering enough, _it was,_ her aunt decided to punch the horn like a quiz buzzer that separated her from a never-ending dollar shower.

“What did you do that for?!” was the according to Harley very sensible question slash exclamation.

“Quit lookin’ like you’re ‘bout ta murder someone, or keep that bizness fer later, but now ya have ta help me. I’m afraid that I missed an exit… some ten road junctions ago.”

“Well, shi-

Sherry lifted her hand from the wheel as to warn her little niece for another disapproving hoot.

“-atsuuu?”

“Bless ya. Now be an’ angel an’ tell me where the hell we’re at.”

“Well, ya said it alright. We’re on the highway to hell.”

“Okay kid, first off, drop that 'damn'-expletive, ya kinda sound like some mustachio cop who’s tryin’ ta mask his fragility by sayin’ ‘damn’ all the time. Secondly, hate that song and this highway is quite frankly freakin’ me out ‘cuz of all those hotheaded Antonios and their heavy feet.”

It almost seemed a mocking demonstration of vexations when another grumpy Fiat 500 passed them by with a load roar.

“Damn Fiats,” Sherry snarled. Harley decided to refrain from comment.

“Anyway, chin’ up Harley, maybe ya meet someone. An’ I’m certainly not talkin’ ‘bout some Antonio, but maybe a Bella, which literally means beautiful gi–”

“Gee aunty, way to draw the ally card.”

“Oh, c’mon sweetie, how couldn’t I? I still rememba how lil’ Harley beheaded some of my precious magnolias just to hand ‘em immediately over to the neigbours’ daughter.”

Harley cringed. She vividly remembered the shrill sound that escaped the girl when she got stung by a bee. That striped six-legged stinger had been lurking in her makeshift bouquet.

“All I’m sayin’ is maybe there’ll be a nice person here, you could even forge a committed letter correspondence with a nice lookin’ gal as yer pen pal. Eh. Eh.”

For all her auntie’s elegance – cherry ( _duh_ ) lipstick, smoky eyes and tweezed eyebrows to perfection –, the woman sure could make some five-star douche faces.

“First off, letter writing is as lame as a chewin’ goat. Secondly, you gotta be shiatsuing me, as if there’ll be a person in that small spaghetti town who’s remotely interesting let alone funny. No grinnin’ alligators for me, not even ones that are called Bella.”

Her aunt shook her head. Harley couldn’t tell if it was out of confusion or exasperation or both. _Tsk, adults._

“Harley?”

There really were just two options for Harley: to pretend to sleep, or not.

“Pamela?”

Talking to a cloth felt a bit stupid so Harley crawled out of her sleeping bag and tried to exit the tent as gracefully as humanly possible. She succeeded, more or less.

And there the girl stood. In sleep shorts and _wait, was that a sweater on top of another sweater?_ Either way them being awake and alone under a nightly sky in a blooming orchard while every sane person was fast asleep had something romanti–, _nope we’re not goin’ that way,_ the whole situation was awkward.

“I, uhm –” Harley let herself float on the soft tones that escaped the girl's lips. “I just wanted to apologize, for earlier, Harley.”

It wasn’t mentioned yet, but there was moonlight. Of course there was, _just great_. And seeing how Pamela’s long, wavy hair was caught in that ethereal glow, while the older girl shot her the tiniest of smiles, it was just –

“Okay.” And Harley almost presented for a third time her hand.

“Okay.” Pamela didn’t look her in the eyes.

“Well, adieu Harley.”

_Not this shit again._

“Wait, Pamela.” Harley’s words were already flung to the back of the other girl, but this time she turned. And for the first time that night Pamela looked Harley in the eyes. Beautiful greeee- _noooope and now what Quinzel? What was it that her aunt always did to stall conversations?_

“I - uhm, I need to use the bathroom?”

Now Pamela was smiling unabashedly. And it was beau-, _ugh now she really couldn't backtrack,_ it was beautiful. Pamela Isley’s smile was beautiful.

“First off, I am not sure if that's a statement or a question. Secondly, for a number two the orchard might not be the worst place, you know for fertilization, but maybe you don’t feel like mooning on your first night here. Which brings me to my third and last point, which is a clear question: Why are you camping outside?”

_Why are you here outside?_ and _I’ve never heard so many words out of your mouth_ and _Was that a plant joke combined with a butt pun?_ All that raced through Harley’s mind but luckily her answer was a bit more to the points, namely the first and third. That number two she’d let it slide, for now.

“Sherry’s orders." Harley shrugged, hoping the movement conveyed nonchalance. "She wanted me to experience the Italian outdoors and she probably didn’t want ta share the guest room." Now a playful eye roll to soften the jab at her auntie's antics. "But I don’t mind it ta be honest, although I really need to pee.” _Two lies make a truth, or was that also a rip-off from some famous line, whatever._

Pamela only nodded and then gestured Harley to follow her to the house.

“I think Edward will be leaving soon, so perhaps you can have that room. In fact, he rarely stays overnight. I doubt he has slept here for the last week. But each morning he’s back, it's quite the riddle. Anyway, you’ll meet him at breakfast.”

“Is that the other American guest, the grad student?”

“Yes.”

The door didn’t make any creaking sound when they entered, which Harley found odd as the building clearly had survived centuries of summers.

“Is he cute?” _Ugh,_ she honestly didn’t know why she bothered to ask, she was far from interested in this Edward guy, but perhaps it was a nasty habit cultivated by all that girl talk about boys in the locker rooms.

Still, Harley’s offhand question wasn’t met by an enthusiastic squeal, not that she thought Pamela Isley was the type of human to produce high-pitched sounds. No, the girl gave her an unimpressed even annoyed look.

“I guess, he’s - how do you Americans say it -, ‘jacked’. Admittedly, the muscles are a recent development. The previous summer his arms and legs were spaghetti strings. I don’t really know what happened there.”

They had arrived at the main hall. Pamela stopped in front of one of the oak doors. “Here’s the toilet.”

Then for probably a second too long not either one of them didn't do or say anything, they were just sharing the same space and waiting for some moment in time.

“Welp, I’ll guess I’ll go pee, wouldn’t want to wet another article of clothing –”

_Yep, out of the two options she definitely had chosen the wrong one._ Harley hurried through the door, missing another amused smile from the redhead.

/ Earlier that evening /

How far from sleep was Pamela. She wouldn’t say all the tossing and turning had something to do with thoughts of a certain Brooklyn girl, but she couldn’t help but feel guilty about cold-shouldering the blonde. _Merde, merde, merde._

Eventually, she left the warmth of her bed to go downstairs for a glass of milk. The promise of its soothing taste had won over to the prospect of another sleepless hour.

When she arrived at the kitchen's open door the lights were already on. She could hear a low humming, _definitely not mother’s as she had never heard the woman hum or carry a tune whatsoever._ It was Harley’s aunt.

“Pammy, dear!” _Was it a family habit for the Quinzels to nickname people even if they barley knew them?_ One of her father's whiskey glasses was raised in her direction. It was filled with the leftovers of the lemon juice she had made that day.

“A real shame Harley smashed that can of juice. It’s divine!” Pamela still hadn’t entered the kitchen and lingered at the door, already starting to regret leaving her bed in the first place.

“I- uhm, I might have overreacted a bit.” An incredulous snort came from the lemon-juice-sipping woman.

“Oh, don’t mind my little niece, she can be a real grumpy old man that girl. She certainly hates comin' here, but I bet she will like the place in a jiffy.” A last swig from the whiskey glass. _She might have spiked it._

“On Jesus, I swear, I needed a drink after that car trip. Damn Fiats.” She quickly rinsed the tumbler and left it upside down on the kitchen counter. Pamela shuffled somewhat awkwardly to let the tall woman pass, but Sherry simply halted.

“I actually wanted ta check on Harley. She’s camping outside ya know.” Sherry’s Brooklyn cadence had some musicality to it and Pamela noticed how the woman’s hands guided the words with a swing here and there. _And they say Italians have whole conversations with their hands_.

“But,” now Sherry hesitantly touched the back of her neck, a giant pearl necklace covered the body part, “I guess she won’t be that glad ta see my face. Maybe since you’re still awake, you can take a look?”

“Oh, bien sûr.”

“That's very kind of ya, Pamela. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

_Well, perhaps an apology will be more effective than that glass of milk._ Pamela left the kitchen and hoped she wouldn’t wake up the blonde or that the blonde wouldn’t be awake, she wasn’t really sure which scenario would be more desirable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Translations]
> 
> “Oh, bien sûr.” – “Oh, sure.”
> 
> Merde, merde, merde. – Shit, shit, shit.
> 
> To all Antonios reading this chapter, watch your driving. Additionally, Harley’s opinion on writing letters is hers and hers only, that said, she’s completely in the wrong.


End file.
